


Jamaican Me Crazy

by takeasmallbite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 11:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19106326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takeasmallbite/pseuds/takeasmallbite
Summary: John and Sherlock are drinking together and that bit of liquid luck helps the two of them come to a very important conclusion.





	Jamaican Me Crazy

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, writing "Heaven Forbid You Draw the Tower" is stressful and I wrote this to give my mind some room to breathe. Enjoy these goofs being drunk.

It was midnight and Sherlock was drinking. Sherlock didn’t drink often, reserving it for when he needed make his unstoppable mind cease its churning. Cases had been coming one right after the other for weeks, and the detective had reached his limits. So he dove into a cocktail and let himself slip away. John wasn’t home. Sherlock wished he was.

When John met Sherlock, he assumed the younger man would have expensive tastes. In many aspects of life he did; Sherlock always had the best clothes and drank the rarest tea he could lay his hands on. John assumed that any strong drink Sherlock chose to consume would be similar. John expected his flatmate would have a cabinet of rare liquor. What he found instead was quite the opposite.

It turned out that Sherlock had a taste for what many would deride as _girly_ drinks. Syrupy-sweet, fruity beverages meant for getting drunk were Sherlock’s go-to. He abhorred the sour, biting drinks that his brother and his own flatmate drank. John’s 6-pack of Fuller’s in the fridge usually had a couple of canned cocktails and a bottle of cheap white wine next to it.

When John got home, he found Sherlock slumped in his chair with two tall cans of Jamaican Me Crazy on the table next to him. The room was dark, save for a single lamp. It wasn’t often that Sherlock drank alcohol, thus he had the alcohol tolerance of a toddler. Sherlock would start to feel that drink do its magic about halfway through one can. John wandered over and picked up both cans. One was empty, and the other was mostly full. As John started to walk away, he felt Sherlock’s fingers tug at the hem of his shirt. The younger man peered up at him, his eyes hazy and his normally anxious features relaxed into a dopey, smiley calmness.

Sherlock loved this. He loved being able to just _look_ at John. Under the pretense of drunkenness, he had found that his flatmate wasn’t as guarded. Sherlock could stare as much as he wanted.

“When did you get back?” Sherlock asked, his smile evident even in his voice. John had imagined that Sherlock would be depressive when intoxicated. It turned out strong drink made him a fair bit more chipper. 

“Just now. When did you start drinking?”

“Not too long ago. Sit with me.”

So John sat in the chair opposite his friend and quietly watched him for a moment. The younger man lazily sipped at his drink, humming contentedly. John rarely saw this side of his friend. He wished there was some way for him to have this while sober. There were times outside of intoxication when Sherlock would look this way: relaxed, happy, pleased to be alive. At times, he would look that way after they had solved a case. They would smile together and enjoy the relief of finally winning. Sometimes they would be eating breakfast together, and John would catch his friend looking dreamy and relaxed for no reason at all.

John liked it. A small part of him hoped that he was at least _part_ of the reason for those smiles. No one looked that at ease because of a plate of eggs.

“You should grab something to drink, too. Doesn’t feel right doing this all by myself,” Sherlock said. His words weren’t slurred, just slower. There was a lot of rum in each of those tallboys, and with his weak alcohol tolerance, Sherlock was well on his way to drunkenness. John found that sort of endearing. That man was strong in so many ways, but he was humorously weak in this one, specific area. Sherlock knew very well that John enjoyed seeing him off his game, though John would never admit it.

John grabbed a Fuller’s from the refrigerator. The beer wouldn’t even get him the slightest bit tipsy, but at least Sherlock wouldn’t feel alone. He cracked it open, returned to the sitting room, and took a sip. Sherlock took a sip of his drink, too, and for a few minutes, they sat in silence. Sherlock stared at John. John stared at the lamp. The sounds of the city carried on outside, even at that late hour. London never stopped. At least it broke up the quiet.

Sherlock quickly finished his second can and wandered over to the refrigerator. John knew that there was only one more Jamaican in the fridge. Sherlock wouldn’t touch beer with a ten-meter pole, so the bottle of white wine was certainly next. John hoped they could split it. As Sherlock meandered back to his seat, he dragged his free hand across John’s shoulders. There was a silly smile on his lips, like he knew something John didn’t. John tensed a bit at the touch, though not out of discomfort. Sherlock sat down, smirking. He gave John an obvious once-over and cracked open his canned cocktail. The shorter man sipped his beer. They maintained eye-contact until John could hardly stand it anymore.

“Is everything alright?” John asked, unsure of what Sherlock found so pleasing that he should smirk like that. He hoped he was the reason the detective looked so smug, but he didn’t dare assume as much.

“Of course,” the detective replied, sipping his drink. His head lolled to the side and he made that face, that one that means he _knows_ something. He looked so pleasant.

“What are you making that face for?”

“What face?”

“The one that means you’ve had an epiphany and you’re expecting that I know what it is.”

Sherlock chuckled, glowing. John’s heart beat a little harder. The man didn’t laugh often, and John enjoyed his laugh very much. He wanted to know how his laugh sounded to Sherlock. Sherlock wanted to know if he could _get_ John to laugh this night.

“I’m just happy you’re here.”

“I’m always here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sipped again. John wondered if it was any good. Even more, he wondered what had gotten into his friend aside from alcohol.

“No, I mean here, being _present_ with me, not just in the same room as me. You’re thinking about me, wondering how I am.”

His smile slipped away and he looked to his feet. He thought of darker times, times marked by loneliness and helplessness. John thought he felt the room get a bit colder, and he found himself overwhelmed with the urge to hug that man, to fix what was wrong.

So he did.

John sat his beer, still full, on the table beside him and crossed the gap between their chairs to wrap his arms around the younger man. Sherlock sat his own drink down to hug him back, squeezing his arms around his ribs, pulling him tighter. John burrowed his face into Sherlock’s neck. They didn’t touch often, but in that moment, it felt right. Sherlock wished he could have this sober. John was stunned he was _doing_ this sober.

When John pulled away, he chose to sit on the floor in front of his flatmate rather than returning to his chair. The hug had stricken something into him, brought to light some recklessness that he hoped he wouldn’t regret. Sherlock scooted onto the floor as well, a bit unsteady. They sat cross-legged, their knees knocking together. Sherlock reached back and grabbed his drink.

“What does that taste like?” John asked. The can was covered in neon flowers and glistened with condensation.

“Fruit and a bit of rum. Probably not your thing.”

“I might like it. I like to try new things.”

Sherlock snickered and handed him the can. John took a sip and savored it for a moment. It was sickeningly sweet, almost too sweet to enjoy. Sherlock preferred that to the best liquors in the world. That thought made John chuckle. Sherlock was pleased to have gotten that laugh he wanted out of the older man.

“Why is it that you drink stuff like this, anyway? It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d be into.”

Sherlock looked at the can with a little smile and said, “If I’m going to be getting intoxicated, it might as well taste nice.”

John took another sip. It was a bit better, this time. He supposed he understood why Sherlock liked it.

“Why _are_ you drinking, Sherlock? It's not like you.”

“I wanted to not think for a little bit.”

“Well, now you can _not think_ with me,” John replied. He knew what he intended to say, but there was another meaning there. There was no doubt Sherlock picked up on it.

John could only imagine what it was like to have a mind like Sherlock’s, a mind that was always going. A mind that stopped him from sleeping and eating and making friends. A mind that John admired. A mind that always amazed him and made him want more of that brilliance, more of that man.

Sherlock’s hand found John’s knee. The shorter man let it stay there. He assumed it was the booze making his flatmate, his _friend_ , more pliant. John was excited beyond words about that hand, but he couldn't show it, couldn't ruin the mood. He couldn't let himself be carried away by hopes that only existed because of booze. Suddenly, Sherlock regretted doing all this while under the influence. It was obvious that John didn’t think any of what they were both clearly feeling was real. He thought it was the cocktail talking.

John desperately tried not to get his hopes up. Sherlock _already_ had his hopes up.

John handed back the drink and Sherlock took another sip. With a sigh, John let his gaze settle on his flatmate’s mouth, soft and pink. Sitting there, with the room dim and his friend quite drunk, John realized that he felt more at ease than he had in ages. He felt like there was room in his mind to think. He understood, in that moment, why that mind he admired so much craved emptiness.

That mind he loved.

 _Loved_.

John took a sip of his beer. It seemed more bitter than it had earlier. He frowned at the can and sat it back down on the side table. He stood, regretting that standing meant displacing Sherlock’s hand. With any luck, his flatmate would put it back.

Sherlock hoped that John getting up didn’t mean he was doing something wrong.

John retrieved the bottle of white wine and two glasses from the kitchen. He sat on the floor right next to Sherlock, much closer than they had been when they sat across from one another. He had no idea what he was doing, just that he was doing it. Sherlock _thought_ he knew what he’d been doing, but was now thoroughly surprised. John poured them both glasses of wine, full to the brim. Sherlock took a sip. John chugged it. Sherlock, dazed and drunk as he was, managed to look even more lost.

“You got a head-start. I have to catch up,” John explained, already pouring a second glass. Sherlock smiled again, moving to place his hand back on John’s knee. Again, John did not remove it. When they had polished off the bottle of wine and John had started to feel a bit looser, he leaned against Sherlock. He took a drink of his now-warm beer, which tasted even more unappetizing than it had earlier. He already wished he had more wine.

“I like this,” Sherlock said, giving John’s knee a squeeze. John’s breath hitched.

“Being drunk?” John ventured. He knew what Sherlock meant, or at least he hoped he knew. With a man like him, he could never be sure. That sexless genius made him downright giddy, he was realizing. John had no idea whether those feelings were reciprocated. Even with him being as touchy as he was in that moment, John didn’t trust his own thoughts.

“No, being here, like this. It’s nice.”

“It is,” John replied.

He sipped his beer. Sherlock turned his head to look at him, studying the shorter man’s profile. His sandy hair, his deep blue eyes, his smallish, pink lips.

 _His lips_. John took another drink and set the can down beside him, then turned to look at Sherlock. He hadn’t noticed the younger man observing him and realized rather acutely how close their faces were.

“I think I know why you drink all the sugary stuff. It’s way better than what I’m used to drinking,” John said, his breath puffing against Sherlock’s face.

“You wouldn’t drink it if it was _that_ bad.” Sherlock was leaning forward a little bit. John’s heart hammered in response.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Do you mind if I taste it?” Sherlock asked. He licked his lips. John swallowed, placing his hand over Sherlock’s. Both of them realized for the first time that whole night that all this was really happening. Sherlock was making moves and John was okay with it. Both of them had just needed a bit of liquid luck to come anywhere close to this.

“I’m not sure you’ll like it,” John murmured.

Sherlock was a hair's breadth away. John’s breathing became shallow. _So close_.

“I think I will.”

Ever so softly, with his hand still on John’s knee, Sherlock kissed him, a graze of their lips. John’s heart pounded against his ribs, surprise mingling with glee. Yes, he loved that mind, but he loved that man even more. They pulled apart and simply looked at each other for a moment.

“Please tell me that isn’t just the booze,” John whispered, moving back in, needing to kiss him again, needing to know it was _real._

Sherlock took his hand from John’s knee and cupped his face with it instead. He stroked John’s face with his thumb. The room seemed to dim even more. Everything around him became irrelevant, save for Sherlock.

“That was all me,” Sherlock said.

John didn’t need him to say it twice. John’s hands found the other man’s shirt and pulled him close, close enough that their noses touched. John could smell the cocktail on Sherlock’s breath. He decided he wanted to taste it again.

“Good.”

So John closed the gap to taste that sweet drink on the lips of the man he loved, and soon, John was feeling quite drunk, too. And they kissed until all they knew was Jamaican Me Crazy and what it felt like to be in each other’s arms.


End file.
